Our Hunger Starts to Make us Sick
by I'm Beth
Summary: Random pairings. Random kinks. Countless hours spent on google looking for any shread of historical relevance between the two.
1. cum inside

AN: Alright, well, here we are again. You see, the other day I was introduced to this quaint little site called generatorland dot com, where I found the neatest little generator: A Hetalia Picture Posting Gernerator. You see, this generator will give you the names of two countries and a kink at complete random. It was originally for 4chan I think, but works just as well for my purpose.

So, here you go. Prepare to have your mind blown.

**GREECE + SPAIN AND CUM INSIDE** (D8)

He was a small child at that time, and maybe that makes it worse, maybe it makes it better; it's not something Greece is too concerned about. He was somewhat exotic, and somewhat nostalgic. His dark skin, his restless demeanor, all reminded him of the days of Sparta, of the endless days training and fighting, of fewer restrictions and not so many rules and 'social norms'. It reminded him of a freer time, a time when he had been the world power.

Ah, what does he know? Maybe he just thought the kid was cute.

"You live with Rome, hu?" Greece had asked. The smaller country looked at him suspiciously. Greece was no threat to Rome, least of all him, but he was restless for a fight, restless for excitement. "What's he like?"

He was a handsome man, Spain couldn't help but notice. His half-lidded, sleepy face made the green in his eyes all the more vibrant, like light bursting through pinholes. "It's alright." He shrugged indifferently.

Greece nodded, and again turned to stare out at the ever-expanding Mediterranean. Spain stared at his shamelessly. Finally, he couldn't stand the silence and blurted out, "What would it take for me to become a man?"

Spain hated this small, weak body. More often then not, he wasn't even aloud to fight in the wars. Rome said he would handle everything, but that wasn't how Spain wanted to live. He wanted to be strong; he wanted to be able to fight his own battles. He wanted to at least get a little taller.

Greece didn't even blink. "The same thing it takes a human."

Spain thought back to his studies on Greek culture. "I have to kill a _helot_?"

Greece laughed. It was dry and low and warm and made Spain think of waking up in bed in the middle of summer with all the windows open. "Not exactly." He leaned in close to him and—

—and Spain's arms gave out and he collapsed on the muddy ground in a shaking, panting heap. Greece hovered above him for a moment, perhaps just looking at him, or maybe he was yawning. It was impossible for Spain to tell from where he was with his face in the mud. Greece finally scooted over to the side and lay down next to him. "Tired?" He asked, languidly running his fingers through Spain's hair. Spain's mouth screwed up. Tired? He was extremely uncomfortable: his arms hurt, his legs hurt, his ass _really_ hurt, he was sticky, and the bastard hadn't even bothered to pull out or anything . . . so, yeah, sticky. But tired?

"A little," Spain admitted. "But I'm also hungry. Let's eat first, and then take a nap." He pulled some loaves of bread out of his bag and handed one to Greece.

And so: Siestas were born.


	2. blowjobs

AN: I almost forgot to mention, not all of these are going to be prony. Sorry, that's just the way it's got to be. I mean, what am I supposed to do with Austria and Korea? I mean, really.

I'm going to try and not let this comment thing be a regular deal.

**GREECE + GERMANY AND BLOWJOBS **(fml)

_Scheiße._ ScheißeScheißeScheiße.

There was no sensible reason for it, and therefore, Germany reasoned, it was unnecessary. But even he couldn't deny that it was . . . that it was _really_. . . It was the feeling he got when he ate exquisite (Italian) food; it did nothing for his body —it didn't make him healthier or stronger. So why did he like it? What had happened to the times when deliciousness had nothing to do with taste; when what tasted good was what was good for you? That's the kind of mentality he wished he possessed at the moment.

"Ur ace's eely ed. Oo m'k?"

Germany bit his tongue to keep from reprimanding him about talking with his mouth full. Saying something like that while doing something like this . . . it was just too much. He wouldn't be able to live through something like that. He was at his limit as it was. "Why are you doing this?" He asked instead.

Greece paused in his ministrations and lifted his head from Germany's lap. Germany had to bite his tongue again to keep himself from begging him not to stop. "You left me a note."

If Germany was mortified or disgusted or about to throw up before, it was nothing to the waves of self-hate that were drowning him now. "I didn't leave any note! What are you talking about? And even if I did, wouldn't you have more reservations about random . . . _favors_ like these between . . . _relative strangers_?"

"Not really," Greece shrugged. He looked back to Germany's still throbbing erection. "So, do you want me to kee—?"

"NO!" Germany launched himself out of his chair. "I bet it was that _verdammt bart gesicht_, France! I'll kill him, I mean it this time, I won't hold back one bit!" He ranted, picking up the odd gun or baton while he stomped around the room, pulling up his pants as he went. With that, Germany stormed out of the room, presumably to rip France's beard off. Greece continued to sit on the floor for a minute, wondering if Germany would mind if he took a nap in his office. His erection was still in full swing and staring up at him expectantly, but was ignored for the most part, in exchange for more pleasant thoughts about cats.

The doors opened again a minute later, however. Japan stood there, looking a little crestfallen. "Where was Mr. Germany going to in such a state? I thought you two were —er, I mean, I uh, what were you two doing in here?"

"I was giving Germany a blowjob." Greece said casually. "What are you doing with those books?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing." Japan was fiddling with a pile of books that were sitting on a table on the other side of the room. As Greece watched, Japan lifted them to reveal that they were actually a hollow box disguised as a pile of books. Hidden beneath the book-box was a video camera. Japan turned to look at the little screen on the opposite side and sighed with frustration. "Oh, this is no good. Greece is completely under the table —you can't see anything. I guess I'll just have to make the best of this. Maybe I can get some nice screen-grabs of Germany's face. . ."

"What are you doing, Japan?" Greece asked, coming to look over the smaller nations shoulder.

"Oh, it's nothing of importance." Japan laughed. "But you might not want to mention this to anyone else. It's kind of a secret."

"I understand." Greece nodded.

Japan nodded as well, and was about to leave the room, when he stopped and turned back to Greece. There was a calculating look on his face. "Hm. . . Say, Greece, would you like to help me with a little project of mine?"

"Sure."


	3. undressing

**NORWAY+ ICELAND AND UNDRESSING **(um um um)

The sun was just setting in Iceland, but there was still a slightly warm breeze. Norway had always liked that about his little brother's house. Despite his icy exterior, he was always very warm on the inside.

"I can't wait to get home," Iceland said. "My feet are killing me. This outfit is so uncomfortable." He pulled his hat off. "And it's getting hot."

Iceland had worn a more traditional outfit for his birthday this year. We use the term birthday loosely, though; this day doesn't celebrate the birth of Iceland as a country, but as an independent. On 1944, he'd freed himself of Denmark, and Norway was proud of him. His little brother was growing up fast.

"We ate so much at the party," Norway mused. "How about we just skip dinner tonight?"

"But we can still have ice cream, right?"

"Of course."

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Iceland had fallen asleep on Norway's shoulder. He fought off the disgustingly pleased grin twisting on his lips. If he smiled, he'd be too much like anko.

"Nor. . ." Ice whined in his sleep. "I'm uncomfortable . . ." He stirred, nuzzling into his older brother shamelessly. This time, Norway couldn't fight the sick grin on his face. These were his favorite times; Sweden had Finland, Finland had Sealand, Denmark had no one —but he's a dick, and doesn't deserve anyone, so that's ok —, and he had Iceland. He was his little secret, so to speak. There was no one else who made him really feel like he was in a family, no one he really wanted to protect with all his might like he wanted to protect Ice. As if sensing his thoughts, Iceland stirred again, blinking sleepily. "Uhg," He groaned. "Why am I still wearing this?" His sleep-numbed fingers pulled half-heartedly at the ribbons around his wrists.

"Want some help?" Norway asked. He quickly untied the ribbons on Ice's wrists and throat, then started unbuttoning his ornate, pain-stakingly hand-crafted jacket —not without care. He started humming to himself, some tuneless song that was a memory of a memory of his childhood. He didn't notice when Iceland suddenly seemed to have trouble swallowing, or when his face turned red, or when his hands started to shake as they reached up to help his.

"Geez, Ice," Norway said as he opened his shirt. "You're really pale. You need more sun."

Iceland thought of the honey brown that was Denmark's skin, and then he thought of how Norway would sometimes not be in his room when he'd wake up in the middle of the night with a nightmare. "Yeah, because I've got so much of that here."

Norway laughed lightly. "True. You could come to my place . . . not much better, I suppose, but, you know. . ." Norway wasn't looking at his chest anymore, he was staring directly into Iceland's eyes, even as his fingers continued to undo bows and pop open buttons.

Iceland swallowed. Yes. He did know.

Later that night, instead of retiring to their beds, they went out to the balcony with arm-loads of blankets and pillows and slept next to each other while the Aurora Borealis twisted above their heads. For Norway, he knew that this was one of those happy moments he would dreamily be reliving come darker times (but then again, he's a pessimist, and can't help thoughts like that). But for Iceland, who was younger more optimistic, all he could think was that this was probably going to be his best birthday ever.


	4. outfit switch

**SOUTH KOREA + AUSTRIA AND OUTFIT SWITCH **(:I)

The minute Italy opened Austria's door, the mismatched cords of a piano reached his ears. He furrowed his brow, and waited for them the even out, but that never happened. Frowning, Italy continued into the house with his basket of dry noodles and tomato paste. They were gifts for Austria and Hungary, because Christmas was soon, and because of the war, Italy wouldn't be able to spend it with them, so he was bringing them their present early.

But something wasn't right. Austria played the piano a million times better than this even on his worst days. The sound reminded him of when he would crawl up on the bench and hammer down on the keys in an effort to recreate the magic Austria was able to make with the instrument, but to no avail. Was there a stranger in the house —the kind of stranger who brakes into people's houses just to play their old, antique musical instruments? Italy shuddered. Maybe he should have brought Germany after all (despite how he had vehemently refused). . .

When he finally entered the music room —that hadn't changed dramatically in the last thousand years he'd been absent from it, other that the instillation of a floor vent— he saw Austria's back, seated at the piano bench, a sight he was so used to, he almost looked right over the man in his search for the source of the horrible noise. He looked the same as he always did; back straight, hair perfectly combed, legs uncrossed and unmoving.

"Uh, M- Mr. Austria?" Italy called, his voice only slightly louder that the horrible music. "A- Are you alright? Because you're music sounds like crap. . ."

"Hey!" Italy jumped, because that was not Austria's voice, and that meant he should probably be getting out of here. "Did you know the piano originated in Korea?"

Italy stopped, half-way out the window, and turned to look back at not-Austria. "K- Korea?"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I don't know what happened," China mused. "But lately, I've found you much more tolerable, Korea."

"For the last time," Austria hissed. "I'm not Korea. I'm Austria."

"Just let me enjoy this a little bit longer."

AN: Told you.


	5. cum on glasses

**GREECE + ICELAND AND CUM ON GLASSES **(Christ on a cracker)

"You're giving me a strange look," Iceland said. "Is this not how two countries become closer?"

"No," Greece said. "I think you've got it right —I just didn't know you wore glasses, is all."

"Oh," Iceland laughed a little nervously. He shifted from where he was sitting on his knees between Greece's legs. Norway had been getting on to him about his naivety with foreign countries, so he decided to go meet some. He'd started with France, because he was always hearing stories about how France liked everybody. He had been extremely cordial and friendly, telling and showing Iceland everything he'd ever need to know about the rest of the world. France had even been kind enough to teach him how countries got to know each other better.

He'd decided Greece would be a good second friend, because he was the most laid back, and as long as he gave up on any hope of being Turkey's ally, he was almost guaranteed friendship.

"I just wear these to see things up close."

"Oh," Greece answered.

"I mean," Iceland stuttered, if one can stutter with a completely stoic face. "I- It's not like I want to see you p- p- penis up close or anything like that. I was wearing them earlier, and just forgot to take them off, that's all."

"Oh," Greece said.

_Maybe I should have gone with Turkey after all_, Iceland thought. Casting that thought aside, he leaned back to Greece's lap and unzipped his pants. He couldn't help the grimace that immediately came over his features. _Shit, he's huge; I wasn't counting on his being huge_. But, if it was for his people, then he'd give practically anyone a blowjob, even if it gave him a sore jaw latter.

_Well, except Anko_, he amended, and then dove in.

Xxxxxxxxxxx

After about five minutes with no response from the blowjobee (The blowjobed? The blowjoben?), Iceland pulled his face back and said, "I'm not doing this right at a—_mhmfft_!"

"Sorry," Greece replied, somewhat more sleepily than usual. "I didn't think you would pull away like that."

"Y- You," Iceland hissed in rage and embarrassment. "Y- You just— I mean, I don't— it- it, you— I can't believe—."

"Sorry," Greece repeated. "Your glasses will be alright, won't they?"


	6. biting

**SWEDEN + UK AND BITING **(nooooooooo. . .)

England has had a very colorful, very explorative sex life. There was a time when sex was freer than it was now, and England had a Hell of a lot less shame. Please understand this before you pass your judgment on him and what he is about to do. As for Sweden, well, no one is entirely sure what goes on in his mind, so who knows, really?

"Eh," England slurred, stumbling up to the lumbering Swede where he sits at his bar. "You look like a reasonabibly man . . . whatcha say ta lettin' me bunk with ya tonight, mate." England gave him his most smoldering look, which just made him look like he was about to throw up.

Sweden just stared at him. He could honestly say he had no idea how to handle a situation like this.

When Sweden still didn't seem to get the picture, England dropped some over-exaggerated winks at him, smiling sultry sweet. "Whatcha say ta that?" He asked again.

Something that needs to be said about Sweden right now before you start judging him too. Please don't misunderstand; this isn't how Sweden normally goes about his day. He hardly ever picks up horny drunkards to fuck at late-night bars. He knows that having relations with other nations could greatly affect his people, so he usually stays out of it. But cut him some slack here—he's only human. He's no saint. He likes sex. There's nothing wrong with that. If someone wants to offer it to him for free, he'll take it.

What are you anyway, his mother?

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sweden didn't bother asking England why he was staying in his house; he was probably too drunk to remember anyway. England had a room rented at a fancy hotel near the pub they were staying, and tried to twirl the keys sexily as they made their way down the lobby, but only succeeded in dropping them five times, once almost knocking them down the air vent. Sweden held the keys after that.

The room was fairly barren, so Sweden suspected he'd dropped in spontaneously, without any real luggage. England walked across the one-room suite and dropped himself unceremoniously on the bed. He laid there face-down for a while, and just when Sweden was starting to think he'd fallen asleep, he rolled over and looked at the other man. "Well? Ya comin' er what?"

Sweden didn't really have an eloquent answer for that, so he simply came over.

He leaned over the bed, over England, and looked at the ancient empire. There were no signs of wear on his face —he looked as young as twenty, even. His eyes were half-lidded and sleepy from the alcohol; his cheeks were ruddy and his breath shallow. He was in danger of falling asleep if Sweden didn't do something soon.

He leaned down, kissed a soft patch of flesh underneath England's ear, and when that didn't prompt any response, he bit down softly, then harder.

England gasped, and rolled his shoulders. "Got my attention, good sir," He laughed weakly.

Sweden didn't respond, but moved his head down so he would have access to England's collarbone. England groaned, distractedly lifting his hands to run through Sweden's short hair. His fingers had already started unbuttoning his shirt.

Sweden's teeth bit into the skin on his neck and shoulders. He ran his hands up his sides and pressed them so close together you couldn't wedge a knife between them. England pushed his legs up on either side of him so he could start grinding softly against his growing erection. Sweden continued his journey down England's front, nipping his shoulders, his nipples, anything he thought would coax out a response. England sighed appreciatively, murmuring sleepily.

_Wait, _Sweden paused and listened to England's breathing. _He_ is _asleep_. He sat up and frowned. Sweden was not a sensitive man, so one wouldn't say his feelings were hurt, he was merely confused, and a little baffled.

England moaned again, and started tugging on Sweden's jacket. He mumbled something incomprehensible, and then said, "Am. . . America . . . hm . . ."

Oh. Now it made sense.

He'd been hearing rumors about the colonist's rebellious nature as of late, but hadn't really connected how it would affect England. If anything, he thought it would just make him mad. But Sweden knew that it wasn't a man who was angry at his brother that went into a bar and drank himself into oblivion.

Gently, so as not to wake him, Sweden pulled the covers up around England's half-dressed self, then turned the lights off, then went to go make some coffee.

Let me repeat: Sweden is not a sensitive man. Not at all.


	7. cum on upper body

**UK + USA AND CUM ON UPPER BODY **(:D)

It had been a long day at work, and England had never been happier to get home. His boss had been railing him all day, his office had been drafty, and his favorite deli had run out of the sandwiches he liked, so he'd been forced to get one with the less appetizing (English) one.

But now he was home, and guess what else was home?

Some ass.

_I'm-on-vacation-so-I-think-I'll-come-over-and-visit-you_, America had said, and England, of course, had been all like, _well-if-you-really-want-to-then-I-guess-I-have-no-other-choice-but-to-make-up-a-room-for-you_. America had been at his house for a few days now, and England was thinking about offering him a full-time key —he'd kind of gotten used to having guaranteed sex upon coming home, and he wasn't sure he would be able to revert to the old days of having to call and wait and loose the mood after an hour long flight. . .

"America," He called as he walked through the door, bouquet or roses in hand. "I'm home! I hope you're oiled up, cuz' I've got a famous, historical clock tower building in my pants, and I'm not feeling very patient."

"What?" America asked. He sounded like he was in their room, so England discarded his briefcase and jacket and made his way to, you know, _get some_. "I don't get your weird metaphors."

"It's a Big Ben joke," England clarified. America was lying on his stomach on their bed, reading a magazine. He barely looked up as England came in. He put the flowers on the bed side table and kissed America's cheek. "How was your day, beautiful?" (_He's so embarrassing_, America thought with an internal blush.)

"S'alright." America shrugged. When he saw the flowers, a small smile sneaked onto his face. America was never one for unnecessary displays of affection —unless they were directed at him. Then he was putty in your hands. Luckily, England was very skilled in the art of wooing.

America buried his face in the red petals and inhaled appreciatively. "Roses: my national flower."

"I know." England grinned. He knew because the rose was _his_ national flower too. Not that there was any correlation between those two things. Purely coincidental.

England crawled on the bed and hovered over America's back. "Hey," He said in his most horny-but-not-drunk voice. He plucked at the waistline to America's pants. "Why don't I help you out of these?"

America seemed to consider it a moment, then said, "Nah."

There was silence from above him for a moment, and then England gave a dry chuckle. "That was funny, America. For a second there, it sounded like you said you didn't. . ."

"Yeah, I'm not really in the mood." America said, setting the roses aside and going back to his magazine. "Maybe later."

"No, I don't think you understand," England flipped America over so that he was looking up at him. "I bought you fucking roses, so you _have to_ put out. Those are the rules. Do you even know what I've been through today? I had to eat a _sauerkraut_ _sandwich_. You know what sauerkraut tastes like? No you wouldn't."

"Look, you can bitch all you want, but you ain't getting any tonight, so you better just get used to it." With that, America flopped back on his stomach and continued his magazine.

"Fuck my life."

"Not tonight."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

_This must be what priests feel like_, England mused. _Constant agony_.

It was about ten at night, and his cock was ready to break through his pajamas. I know what you're going to say: _England, there's no way you maintained an erection for four hours!_ Well, he didn't; this was a new one. He'd been getting them consecutively all day long. He'd get his mind off it and it would go away, then America would walk in without a shirt on and it would be back again. He felt like he was about to die.

"Hey, America," He whispered. America was sleeping with his back to him. "Hey, America, wake up."

"Whaaaaaat?" He whined.

"Do you want to have se—?"

"_No_. Now go to sleep."

"I'm dying over here, man."

"Then just . . . take care of it yourself."

"I don't want to get out of bed. . . I'm _sleeeeepy_."

"Then don't get out of bed!"

England blinked, then sat up. "You mean that, America? You wouldn't mind?"

"If it'll shut you up."

England turned and hovered over America again. He stared at him intensely. "Take off your shirt."

"I told you I—."

"I just want to see you. I won't touch, I promise."

America's face exploded with fire. _Erotic Ambassador. . ._

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was sometime past midnight. There were no lights on in the small room England and America shared, but their eyes had adjusted to the dark enough for them to see. Not that America wanted to see anything in the current situation he was in.

"Hey," England panted. "Quit that. Look at me."

_So freaking embarrassing_, America thought, blushing furiously. England straddled America, one hand propping himself up, the other around his cock. How could he blame America for not wanting to look? "This is pretty much the same of having sex, you know."

"My point exactly." England grinned, his cheeks slightly red. "And you don't even have to do any work."

While America did enjoy not doing any work, he did not enjoy being as useful as a magazine page. He wanted to say this, he wanted to argue his point and rail at the older man for being such a creeper, but every time he lifted his head and looked into England's eyes, he lost his train of thought.

England groaned and threw his head back. "Hey . . . part your legs a little, would you?"

America felt like his head was going to explode from all the heated pressure that was building up in there. "Hey! No grinding! That's one of the rules!"

England smirked down at him. "I know . . . but it's kind of hard not to when it feels like I'm sitting on a tire iron."

"LIES!" America screamed, but he did part his legs a little.

England was getting close, America could tell. Whenever he was about to cum, he'd clench his entire body up and hardly move at all. Then he would moan kind of quietly, then relax and ride out the afterglow. It was a strange thing to witness without lust clogging his own brain. Frustrating. Another interesting difference was, usually, when they were doing it together, England would either cum in his ass, or on the bed. That was not the case, this time. America wanted to be disgusted by the sticky whiteness that was splattered on his chest like a crime scene, but couldn't quiet muster up the will.

"Sorry," England laughed breathlessly. He rolled off America and just lay next to him while he tried to catch his breath. "Was going to try and. . . angle it away. . . but got distracted." He laughed again. "But I'm sated now. So thank you." He closed his eyes like he was going to go to sleep. Like that was going to happen anytime tonight.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" America hissed, grabbing England's arm and jerking him back towards him. "You can't go to sleep yet!"

"Can't you just take a shower in the morning?" England whined.

"That's not what I'm talking about!" America cried. He grabbed England's shoulders and threw him back on his back. "You're not aloud to go to sleep until you have legit sex with me!"

"What?" England cried. "But you said you weren't in the mood!"

"That was before you jacked off to my face, now TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS!"

"Actually, I don't really think I'm in the mood anymore. . ."


	8. nipple sucking

AN: Just fyi, I'll be setting the character thing for whatever pairing is featured in the most recent chapter. I don't like seeing it empty. It bothers me. This is not at all a desperate attempt to get more people to read this. Not at all. Anyway, not sure how I feel about this one. Not my favorite. I'm excited about the next two though. They're pretty long lol.

(ps. I was so happy to get my first comment on this fic! I love you, whitealmond!)

**LATVIA + SWITZERLAND AND NIPPLE SUCKING **(wutthefuk jfjklfdskjl)

"Now, I'm only lending him to you for the weekend," Russia said pleasantly. Next to him stood little Latvia, trembling slightly like a baby tree in the wind. Russia stood besides him with a hand on his back like a hurricane. "So please take really good care of him." Russia smiled warmly. It was a fake expression, Switzerland knew. He also knew better than to trust such a face; but he just nodded civilly anyway. Best not to start fights about expressions just now. He had a job to do, after all.

Russia turned to the little Latvia, and the tiny nation looked like he would faint under the force of those eyes. "Now Latvia, I want you to come back nice and strong, you understand?" Latvia nodded feebly. "Because, if you don't," And that expression was back, the one Switzerland didn't trust. "I might just have to get rid of you. What do I need weak nations for? Germany probably wouldn't treat you too badly. . ."

"No!" Latvia cried. "I'll get stronger; don't worry about me, sir!"

"Excellent," Russia said. He turned to Switzerland. "I leave him in your capable hands." And with that, he turned around and was gone, a slightly chilly breeze trailing behind him.

Switzerland let the grimace he'd been restraining out of civility spread openly on his face now that the Russian had his back turned. A few weeks ago, Russia had called him about training his '_useless little Latvia'_. _He can't fight, he can't defend anything, and he pees his pants whenever he sees an enemy coming_, Russia had said over the phone. He'd never liked Russia, and hated doing business with him, especially pointless business like this, but money was money was money, and he was always somewhat in need of it.

"Alright then," Switzerland said, turning to Latvia, who was still staring in the direction his tormenter had been walking away in. "Come inside. I'll show you to your room."

Xxxxxxxxxxx

"Your first lesson is on defense," Switzerland said, positioning the chalkboard so Latvia had a good view of it. He had a notebook resting on his lap and a pencil gripped between two fingers. He looked intent, determined, and a little green. "You must always be on the look out for attacks. Animals can be especially dangerous, so always be careful; even if they look cute, they can be poisonous, or rabid, or—"

This is about the time that Latvia stopped listening. _His drawings are so cute_, he couldn't help but think. _So cute. . ._

"And if a stranger asks you if you want to hear piano music, then you must _always _say —"

"Um, Mr. Switzerland?"

"What? You need to pay attention, this is important."

"Yes, I understand, but, uh, could you maybe draw those pictures for me in my notebook?"

Sigh.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

This is probably where everything went downhill.

"What the fuck are you doing in my sister's bed?"

Yes, this is usually where things go downhill.

No one could possibly describe the look on Switzerland's face right now. You don't want to know, I mean it. There is nothing reassuring, like you-might-live-through-this in that face. Just death. Even in frilly pink pajamas, he was still terribly imposing with his huge semi-automatic rifle.

"_I- I- I- I'm sorry!_" Latvia quailed, jumping out of the bed and backing up against the wall. "_I didn't m- m- m- mean to! P- Please don't kill me!_"

"Brother, it's okay," Liechtenstein said quietly, sitting up. "Nothing happened. He just had a nightmare. I told him he could sleep with me."

Switzerland considered this while keeping the barrel of his gun in Latvia's mouth. If he thought about this rationally (a difficult task) then he could understand what happened to a certain extent. The smaller nation obviously had no real loving family at his home. It made sense for him to gravitate towards someone like Liechtenstein, who was sweet and nurturing and comforting. But still. . .

"No more sleeping with my sister," He hissed at Latvia, who's trembling could only be taken for nodding. "Is that understood?"

"Hubagugahya."

He took that for a yes.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Switzerland was not a very fickle person. He despised that type of person. If you weren't strong enough to stand by your decisions, you shouldn't be making them. Switzerland made it a point to never back down if he knew he was right.

Which is what made this so hard for him.

For the last three nights, Switzerland had been kept up at night by the sound of Latvia's sobs. He wasn't used to the feeling of guilt. He always tried to do the right thing, and yet it ended up like this, more often than not; with people thinking him callous because he couldn't please everybody.

And to make it worse, he had a feeling Lichtenstein was angry at him —and despite the fact that it was a physiological miracle she was able to get angry at all, he was still very upset. She'd never been angry at him before, and he just didn't know how to deal with it.

Though really, he knew what he had to do to fix all this.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You're sleeping with me tonight."

"Yes sir, Mr. Russia, sir!" Latvia cried, jumping back into the wall, arms raised in the universally recognized sign of _don't shoot, I'm just a pedestrian_.

"What?" Switzerland asked. He was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing his usual scowl. He regarded Latvia curiously, but not without a slight blush, knowing his question must have sounded strange.

"Oh, uh, nothing." _I should have known this day would come_, Latvia thought bitterly as Switzerland walked away, still looking somewhat perturbed. _They're all the same: Russia, Germany, all of them! They make you think they're kind and generous, then the second you let your guard down, they . . . they . . . they do something like this!_ Latvia slumped down into a chair, fighting off a flood of tears the best he could. He'd actually been starting to like it here, too.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxTHAT NIGHTxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Switzerland was pleased to see that Latvia was already undressed and in bed when he walked into his room that night. Punctuality was one of the most favorable qualities in a man, he'd always said.

"You don't need me to leave a light on, do you?" He asked as delicately as this awkward situation demanded. He hadn't slept in the same bed with another person since his childhood, with that dumb piano-playing bastard. Liechtenstein had always been fine sleeping on her own, and she had even less strength than the Baltic Nation he'd been shackled to.

"N- No, I'll be fine. . ." _I ought to be able to find everything in the dark by now_, Latvia thought bitterly. If he didn't know Switzerland better, he'd think he was taunting him.

Switzerland nodded and, awkwardly, moved to slip under the covers. Latvia didn't move away to give him extra room, like he thought he would, but he didn't say anything because he was so unknowledgeable in the art of sleeping with others. _What an odd feeling, to have someone's arm pressed against my own like that_, he couldn't help but note. _It's strange, but startlingly comforting. Like having a tiny fire under the covers with me, next to my arm, on my crot—._

"_! WHAT ARE YOU DOING DOWN THERE!_" Switzerland shouted, springing into a sitting position while simultaneously trying to push Latvia away while simultaneously reaching for the gun he kept on his bedside table at all times, but the former wouldn't budge.

"It's alright, Mr. Switzerland," Latvia assured him. With the hand that wasn't buried in Switzerland's pants he started to unbutton his sleep shirt, a look of annoyed frustration on his face. "I've got a lot of experience."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Much, _much_ later that night, Switzerland lay in bed next to a slumbering Latvia, trying to remember the last time he'd been in bed with another naked man. He couldn't seem to recall.

"God," He muttered to himself. He was pretty sure he was going to vomit.

"Hm?" Latvia stirred next to him. "Are you awake already?"

"Yes. I've conditioned myself to wake up automatically at six o'clock everyday."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Latvia stirred next to him. "Do you want to go get breakfast, or something?"

"I'm not really hungry."

"If you don't eat breakfast, you'll be tired all day."

"I'll get something later."

They were both quiet then. Latvia's silence was kind of an awkward one, while Switzerland's was more stunned.

"So, uh," Latvia cleared his throat. "So, you really didn't mean for, uh, for me to d—."

"No. Not really."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"So, it was all just a misunderstanding, then?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Ha ha. This is pretty . . . uh, awkward then, hu?"

"I don't see how that's funny."

"Yeah, not really."

"Hm."

"Sorry about that."

"It's just—."

". . . What?"

"I don't understand."

". . . I'm sorry?"

"Nipples should _never_ be used that way."

"Yeah, you're probably right about that."

"Not a male's nipples, anyway."

"Yeah, sorry about that."


	9. apron

AN: WooHoo two posts in one day! Kinda short, but whatevs.

**GREECE + ROME AND APRON **(jfdsjfkjlf)

It was a sleepy Greece (what other kinds are there?) that walked into his kitchen in the dead of night to find a grown man in a dress rummaging through his refrigerator.

"You really shouldn't bother." Greece felt the need to point out to him. "I haven't been shopping in weeks."

"Hm?" The man turned to look at Greece with a turkey leg sticking out of his mouth. "'as m'k."

Greece stopped short and squinted. The sleep fog cleared out of his mind long enough to register that things were Not As They Should Be. "Rome?"

"What's up?" Rome said. "Got any beer?"

Xxxxxxxxxxx

"Am I dreaming?" Greece decided he might as well get that one out of the way.

"Do you dream about me often?" Rome asked, tickling Greece's chin like he used to when he was smaller.

"I guess not then."

"I just came back to see how my sweet little Italy's doing." Rome said, leaning back on the couch and smiling at Greece. "He's living with some guy who looks a lot like Germania."

"Yeah, I know." Greece said. "I always thought that was strange. He's Prussia's brother, you know."

"No kidding?" Rome laughed. "They're nothing alike! You'd think Prussia could produce at least a cool brother to take care of my grandson. . . Oh, whatever. So," He turned back to Greece with a sultry smile that was all too familiar to him. "Have you missed me much?"

"Not really." Greece said. "I'm surrounded by the things you and my mother left behind, so I don't really get lonely."

"Oh, well that's good, I suppose."

"It's actually kind of annoying—"

"Do you miss when I would do this?"

Greece was hardly ever rendered speechless. This was one of the three times in his life it had happened (FYI: 1st: Alexander the Great died [literally] of exhaustion, 2nd: Japan took off his own thumb, and 3rd: Rome goosed him on his living room couch some 1700 years after he'd died).

"I think I'll go make some coffee."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Greece had still been in the body of a child in his Golden Age. It had bothered him at the time, but now he saw it was because he still had a long life to live out. Others like Rome, though, who were strong and tall, peaked at that point in their lives and died shortly after.

Rome had come, pushed Greece off his pedestal, shown on it for the shortest of times, then promptly hurled himself off it as well. Seeing him now was . . . it felt. . .

The mere fact that Greece would even think of making coffee is a testament to how awkward a situation he's in. Greece detests coffee and what it does to the body. He hates the way it makes him feel; like his skin is running with electricity that can only escape through his twitching fingers. But coffee he is making now, at three in the morning, for his long dead superior (it's the best term he can come up with for Rome —he's not his elder, he's not his master, he's not his brother, they were hardly even friends). There were so many things Just Not Right with this picture.

"Are you wearing an apron?"

Greece scowled. "Yes. That's what apron's are for. So your clothes won't get dirty while you're cooking. How do you even know what they are, anyway?"

In lieu of answering, Rome simply dropped a magazine on the counter next to the coffee pot. On the cover was a curvy girl wearing only an apron with icing smeared all over her face and looking just thrilled about it. Greece blushed and looked away (sex is bland, remember?). "Where did you get that?" He certainly didn't own anything like it.

"I picked it up while I was at Germany's house." Rome said casually. "He acts like he's all good and proper, but I knew he was hiding something." He smirked. "He better not be trying any of this sick shit on my grandson."

"Well, aprons aren't just for kinky sex. They're also for cooking in. No —they are primarily for cooking in. It is actually a very small percentage of the general population that prefers apron-sex over apron-cooking."

"Well, I still think it looks good on you." Rome smirked. His arms snaked around Greece's middle. "Hey, about a quick one for the road?"

"Stop, please." Greece sighed, closing his eyes. "You shouldn't even be here." Since when had he become so obsessed with What Should Be and What Should Not Be? Probably when What Should Not Be was Rome trying to have sex with him in his kitchen at three in the morning (let me stress the _three in the morning_ here).

"So?" Rome whispered in his ear. "Since when did you become so obsessed with What Should Be and What Should Not Be? You became a real stick in the mud, didn't you?"

Greece cursed Rome's ability to mimic his every thought. "Fuck you. I'm not a necromancer."

Rome was quiet for a moment, and then said. "Not only was that an oxymoron, but, uh . . . Do you mean necrophile?"

"Oh, yeah. That. I'm not that."

Rome sighed. "Whatever happened to the good old days when we would just hang out, having sex whenever we pleased?"

"Do you mean with each other, or just in general?" Greece asked.

"What do you think I mean?" Rome asked, then kissed him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

"Hey, when I wake up, are you going to be gone?"

Rome smiled a little sadly and slipped an arm around Greece's stomach. "Yes, unfortunately."

"Oh. That's sort of depressing." But it was nice to be held while lying in bed. He'd missed this.

"Are you going to admit your going to miss me when I'm gone?" Rome teased, nuzzling his ear. He's unusually cuddly, Greece thought. I must be dreaming after all.

". . . Yeah. I guess a little."

Rome kissed him on the nose like he used to when he was a kid. "Well, it was nice to get our goodbyes out the way this time then."

"I guess your right." Greece smiled then. Just a little.

"It's kind of like closure."

"Kind of."

"I like that you wore the apron. It's pretty cute."

"Yeah, and it kept me clean."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next time Greece opened his eyes, Rome was gone, and he wasn't wearing the apron anymore. He sighed and closed his eyes. What a weird dream. He'd have to ask Japan about it later. He was a real expert in things like this.

Suddenly, the smell of coffee drifted towards his nose.


End file.
